


bird on a wire

by Magali_Dragon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Clubbing, Comfort/Angst, Drinking, F/M, No Plot/Plotless, Smoking, Smut, kind of no plot/plotless, purposefully vague, smoking is very very bad for you and I hate it but it's kind of an aesthetic thing here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:34:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26291206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/pseuds/Magali_Dragon
Summary: Daenerys escapes to an underground club to let loose some steam and meets a dark, handsome stranger who helps her process her feelings.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 56
Kudos: 276





	bird on a wire

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic that came out of a moodboard I made, which came out of the photo of Emilia in it. It's kind of angsty and is purposefully open-ended and vague. No intention of expanding on it. 
> 
> Thanks!

* * *

The club looked like nothing from the outside. That was the point. It was what lay inside that counted.

Like people, Daenerys mused, climbing out of the Uber. She slammed the door closed, ignoring the rather concerned look from the driver. She'd give Podrick five stars for his care, but she knew exactly where she was, and she would be fine. Her skirt rode up a little on the back of her thighs, her metallic and leather dress clinging to her like a second skin. She adjusted the hem, tugging briefly on it and strutted off to the entrance of the warehouse.

People milled about the street; one might consider them unsavory. They barely glanced at her; she looked the part. She didn't stand out here. The scent of sweat, smoke, and sex clung in the air, carrying out on the light breeze through the warehouse district, occasional screams and shouts, people drunk and laughing, stumbling out here and there from shadowy corners and alleys. The ground vibrated under her six-inch heels, the bass shaking her body and rattling her teeth the closer she got to the entrance.

She pushed by a few people who fell out—thrown out actually—from the club. A glance at the bouncer; he waved her in, no questions asked. They wouldn't ask them. She'd flashed the tattoo on her inner wrist, the three dragons flying off. It was tonight's password; she needn't speak it, only show. She edged inside, by the mammoth Dothraki guards, and stepped into another world.

At the end of the long, narrow corridor, amber lights flickered above, water stained walls and scurrying of rats along the fallen pipes and grates, a bright light beckoned her, flashing and sparking, the music increasing the closer she got, walking down the corridor to break out into the club itself. Her ears split, mind almost seizing at the noise, powerful driving bass, keyboard, and drums, whatever DJ up on stage an unknown entity, but no one here came for the music, not really.

They came to _escape._

Neon lights flashed, strobes, and cast everyone in strange multicolor glows, never the same color twice. If anything, people looked fluorescent, skin almost blue. Her eyes strained, until she grew used to it, moving along the edges and through the crowds. The entire warehouse was a dance floor, gods only knew what crunched under her heels. There were areas for VIPs, sunken couches and ratty leather chairs, and along the catwalks were "private" booths so to speak.

She barely glanced at the DJ, eyes falling on the bar set up along one of the walls, the liberal pouring from the unlicensed bartenders, the shots tossed about, and liquor plied to anyone and everyone. It was a drug, this atmosphere, and drugs were thrown about easily too. Someone pushed against her, trying to drag her to the floor to dance, and an elbow in the gut had them backing off.

It was hot, stifling, sweat already beading at the nape of her neck. Long dark curls hung around her face and she tucked a lock behind her ear, revealing the silver ear cuff she wore, glinting in the various lights. She wanted nothing to do with people, not really. The reason she was here was to drown in the crowd, to close her eyes and drift away, feelings smothered by the music, the sensations, and the drink she sorely needed.

She moved to the bar, slamming her hand down, shouting. "Gin, straight!"

The music wasn't quite so loud here; at least you could hear someone if you tried hard enough. A guy leaned towards her, grinning. "You're hot," he said.

"You're a dick," she called back, lifting her drink to him. She shot it back, the dry alcohol burning her throat, turpentine for the heart. She shifted on her heels and reached into her purse, but the guy leaned over, said he'd get it. She grinned, removing her cigarettes, waving them at him. "Thanks."

It was a tried and true trick to get someone to pay for her drink; she disappeared from him with a little finger wave, his face a confused mix of surprise and annoyance she had rebuffed him while also getting him to pay for her. It was fun. She finished the drink and threw the cup on the ground with the others, moving by towards the spiral stairs leading to the catwalk, one of the other Dothraki guards standing there, strapping and mean, his holster showing off two guns—no doubt he had a couple more on his person, plus a knife.

With another flash of her wrist, he allowed her up, and she sauntered around to the catwalk, a cigarette between her lips. She clicked along the rickety rusted floor to the corner, where the organizer of said event sat, an arm around his current bedmate. "Moon of my life!" Drogo roared.

"Drogo," she greeted, allowing him a squeeze of her arse before she leaned down, lighting her cigarette from the cigar clamped between his teeth. She blew a stream of smoke into his face, smiling coyly. "My sun and stars."

He rumbled a chuckle, dark eyebrows lifting, one sliced through with a scar. A scar he claimed he received in a barfight, but in actuality she'd given him with the edge of a broken beer bottle when he'd gotten too handsy with her several years before. She had a long and storied history with Drogo, including a time when she lit him on fire. He still considered her the one that got away. She considered him a cautionary tale of what young girls did when they wanted to get back at their parents.

She sat on the edge of one of the chairs, crossing her legs. His eyes dropped to the edge of her skirt, which rode up to her hip, revealing a stretch of pale, creamy thigh. She puffed on her cigarette, blowing another stream of smoke toward him, dark eyebrows lifting. "Nice place tonight."

"You found it."

"Hard not to." She scanned the crowd, the twisting bodies on the floor below, the entire scene something out of a dream. Her brown eyes flashed in the neon, waiting for him to speak. He looked awkward, removing his arm from around the woman she knew was Doreah. She jerked her head sideways and Doreah stood, smirking at her and sauntered off to find some other fun, leaving them alone.

The khal and the khaleesi, they would whisper, but there was never anything more than ancient history between them. She glanced down again at the crowd. Eyes closed, she allowed the music to pulse around her, letting the gin work its magic, her brain only a little fuzzy. She opened her eyes long enough to meet Drogo's. "No," she said. She chuckled, cigarette to her lips again. "I'm not that desperate."

He smirked. "Thought I'd try." He spoke in Dothraki, his preferred language, as Common Tongue still felt unnatural to him.

She stubbed out her cigarette on the armrest of the chair, flicking the butt at his feet. She stood again and leaned over, grabbing the bottle of expensive Northern vodka from the table his gigantic booted feet used as a footrest. "See you around Drogo." She turned, intending to walk off to drink, to maybe score something to help her take the rest of the edge off, when he laughed, long and low, and called out to her retreating form.

"You know where to find me."

The words were meant to be teasing, seductive even, but she didn't care. There were plenty of men— and women—who would do anything to be in her bed that evening. She had her pick of people, if she wanted Drogo again, she knew exactly where to go and all she had to do was crook her finger. He liked to think he was the big bad on the block, but he was on a lead with her—all she had to do was tug and he'd come trotting along. She hadn't cashed in on that option in years. Drogo stupidly didn't realize she never would again.

The vodka did its job, one hand holding it to her lips while the other smoked on another cigarette. She moved to another area of the VIP section, finding a couple of her friends, all of whom would never be caught dead here if they were in their usual attire. She came upon her best friend Missandei, who tugged her over to a group of young men, including her boyfriend Grey, all of them casually drinking and smoking. "Want to dance?" she asked, eager.

"Fuck yes."

They went to the floor and joined in, both of them allowing the music to carry them away. This was where she wanted to be, so badly, she'd been desperate for it. The feeling of absolutely _nothing_. She leaned back, her arms draped around Missy's neck, her friend's hands skimming up and down her sides, allowing her to use her as a crutch. She was just one of the crowds there, another faceless person, nameless even. _No one._

It’s all she ever wanted, to be a normal person, to just _be_ a person. Not what she was.

_Don’t think of that._

There was no one watching her, not right now, not as she closed her eyes and danced, and allowed the music to take her away from the world. It was Dany and her friend Missandei. She wasn’t…well she wasn’t _that_ woman.

Time ceased to exist, being in this bubble, and for a time, perhaps the entire evening, she was there, hands in her hair, moving over her throat and her belly and to her thighs, and her arms around her friend, and dancing with nameless faces and the ghosts that traveled with her.

A light pressure on her hips drew her to the present again, her eyes slowly opening, face sticky with sweat and melting makeup. These hands weren’t Missandei’s, she realized. They were on her ribcage before she truly understood it. Missy had nimble, small fingers, but these ones were wide and warm, and rough. _Open_ , she forced her eyelids, and with a cracking sensation, her eyeshadow and mascara broke and she was able to fully roll her violet orbs upwards, to finally get a look at the man who now stood behind her, holding her against his hard chest

He pulled her, almost grinding her to him, and she whimpered, a sinful mix of pleasure and promise in the action, even with a bloody stranger. No one ever touched her like this, not without being taken out in a single move, and she savored it briefly, until the hands released her hips. Her back curved, trying to press to him again. Dark and stormy gray eyes locked onto hers. He smiled; smirked. The stranger’s eyes were now black and seductive. It would not surprise her if he crooked his finger and beckoned her to follow.

And then he was gone. Her body cooled, his presence slipping into the throng of bodies, as silent and shadowy as he'd arrived at her side.

_Like a ghost._

Missy grinned and wiggled her brows, the gold ring in her nose and the jewelry along her ears and adorning her neck shining like the sun, men and women both gravitating towards her. She was a butterfly, flitting around, and waved farewell, knowing they would part for the evening.

She smirked, waving to her friend, and moved through the crowd again, to the bar, where she found her shadow and brief dance partner, leaning against the bar, a cigarette dangling in his fingers, a glass of whiskey at his elbow. "Hello," she said.

He puffed the cigarette, dark brows lifting . "Hello."

"Quite an introduction out there." She leaned towards him, inhaling the scent of cheap cigarettes, whiskey, and the distinctive smell she associated with the North—pine, woods, and fires. _Warmth_ , maybe. Not something you usually experienced in these places. He looked the part. Black leather jacket, black shirt, and black jeans. Black boots. A silver chain peeked at his neckline. Raven curls framing his face, messy and careless. He looked like he didn't give a shit about anything or anyone. Except his eyes.

His gray eyes were warning, dangerous, and haunted. This man was broken, she deduced. _Damaged._

Just like her.

"Buy me a drink?"

"Why? You can afford it." He flicked this cigarette butt onto the floor, stamping it with his heel. He grinned, picking up his whiskey and drained it, setting the glass down. He challenged her. "So how about you buy me one instead?”

Her tongue darted out, ran the length of her lips, wetting them. The crimson lipstick she wore had rubbed off ages ago. "How do you think that?" she retorted, deciding to play along. If he was the bad boy tonight, she could be the bad girl. Not the good girl.

_Never the good girl._

“Just a guess.”

Perhaps it was her dress, which cost more than the average Westerosi made each year. Or the ear crawlers, with real moonstones and diamonds. The onyx and rubes on her rings winked in the neon, flashing momentarily across his face, when she reached for the drink a bartender set in front of her. They already knew what she wanted. She sipped it, casually surveilling him over the edge of the glass. He was quite handsome; he would do perfectly for her distractions that evening.

She edged closer, until the toes of her stilettos bumped the hard toe of his boot. “Maybe I’m in debt.”

“Maybe you’re a tease.”

“It’s working, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” he murmured; she could hardly hear him. He drained the whiskey, slamming the glass down. A wad of cash disappeared from his hand into the pocket of the bartender, so fast it was a blur of movement. He jerked his head towards the exit. It wasn’t a suggestion, a question, or even a request.

It was a bloody demand.

The watchful eyes on her were impatient. He wanted her _now_. She picked up her cup again, smirking. “I’m not done yet.”

Irritation flickered. He reached over for the cup and took it, throwing it aside, and he grinned again. “Now you’re done.”

_Bloody wanker._

She liked it. The roughness to such a smooth, solemn face. It would do. She lifted her chin, shaking her head, barely, and licked her lips again, a temptress. A tease. Twirling on her heel, she sauntered away from him, into the throng, to find Missandei, and leave him wondering. The eyes never left her; she knew he studied her from wherever he’d decided to hide. Someone like her always knew when she was being watched.

A wolf, she thought; that’s what he reminded her of. A wolf with its prey.

She ran her fingers through her thick dark mane, letting the curls waterfall down her back, exhaling the tension building within her body. There was no use rushing this.

He’d be waiting.

* * *

The throbbing of the music from the club lingered in her eardrums even after she’d exited, a dull ache trembling down her body to the numb soles of her feet. Her lungs burned from whatever she’d inhaled on her way out of the club, from a large group of people smoking something purple. Sweat chilled on her skin, flushed and dewy from dancing. It was not even sunrise, there was still plenty of time left in the night.

She’d left Drogo to whatever floozy he’d found for the night, even after he propositioned her several more times, going so far as to suggest he call in a favor with someone who might come looking for her. The heel she’d pressed into his dick warned him off from cashing in that particular chit. Missy had left with her boyfriend and some others, for another party nearby, telling her she was more than welcome, but understanding her need to stay alone.

Or as alone as she would be, she thought, stopping by the parking lot, ignoring catcalls and shouts trying to get her attention. The shimmery dress she wore dulled slightly in the darkness, eerie green from the headlights cast upon her. She approached the man leaning against a bike, hand in the pocket of his jacket while he smoked. “Got a light?” she asked, fingering her cigarette.

He reached into his pocket, removed a silver lighter, and flicked it over hers. The end glowed momentarily, until she inhaled, and turned sideways to blow out the first puff. She held the cigarette to her lips, but did not take it in again, her hip cocked, and the entirety of her leg on display for her perusal. He did not look, too busy watching her face. His cheeks sucked in with the deep drag on his smoke. It curled from his nostrils, streamed out his pursed lips, and clouded them both in its hazy fog. It drugged her further, made her move closer to him, seeking him. “You enjoy your night?” he asked.

“It was pleasant enough. Could be better.”

He reached behind him, dislodged a black helmet and offered it. Again, no suggestion, but demand. She smiled, finished her cigarette, and dropped it to the ground, stubbing out. She took the helmet and hiked her skirt up to her hips, slinging a leg over to join him on the bike. He growled; rumbling low like the engines around them. “My, my, that’s not ladylike.”

“I’m not a lady.” He obviously referred to the fact she wore nothing beneath her skirt, had flashed him. She rubbed against him, her hands linking around his waist, and long nails scratching at the bulge in his denim. He hissed. She grinned. “Drive.”

He laughed, threw back his head, and let it out, hands moving to roll back the throttle, the bike’s engine roaring to life. “Hang on.”

_Always._

* * *

They found a quiet pub, far away from the rave and blocks of underground clubs near the piers. No sign hung outside its door and hardly anyone looked up when they entered; the point, she suspected. He took her around to the end of the long, wide oak bar, dim and dark, lights dulled out in many spots. She sat next to him, crossed her legs, and allowed her foot to slide between his calves, stroking lightly along the denim-clad muscle.

He lit another smoke, offered it to her. She took it, dragged a couple of times, and handed it back to him. “You wanted to get away,” he said, finally speaking. He sipped his whiskey. Dark brows lifted. “We’re away.”

“Never far enough,” she whispered.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” She knew she needed to. She tapped her nails, painted a deep crimson, against the glass. The amber liquid inside warmed her, yet she remained cold. She closed her eyes, turning her face, downcast. “Too many pressures, you know.”

“Family? Work?”

“They’re one and the same, are they not?” She smirked. “I’m in the family business.”

“You should get out.”

“Not as easy as you think.” You didn’t just _get out_. It was a lifelong commitment. Not that she wanted to leave, exactly. Sometimes it was just too difficult. She sighed, brushing her fingers over her lips. “I don’t want to leave, I want them to take some of my ideas, but well, it’s a little difficult for them to take me seriously.”

“I’d take you seriously.”

She chuckled. “You would?”

He propped his head on his hand, elbow on the bar, studying her. His looks reminded her of x-rays. He could see right into her brain. “Tell me these ideas of yours, I can tell you if you’re on the right track.”

“What would you care about them?”

“They’re important to you, they must be important overall.”

They spoke quietly, of anything and nothing. Her _ideas_ , as silly as they were, how she liked to help people, she wanted to do more of it. She was stifled. It was there, at her fingertips, but she couldn’t get it. So she let loose. “I wonder if while I’m drowning on the dance floor, I can get that great epiphany all creators have.”

Clinking from the bottle the bartender left for them against the oak wood brought her back to the present and her eyes focused again on him. He picked up the bottle and poured a little more whiskey into their glasses. “Is that why you escape?”

“A shrink told me that when I was little I acted out for attention.” She smirked. “Maybe this is the adult version.”

“I pulled fire alarms as a kid.” Cellophane crinkled from the fresh pack of cigarettes he unwrapped. He shoved it into his pocket, and it was his turn to smirk, his pretty pink lips curling over his sharp canines. “Ended up in juvie. Believe me, running away to underground clubs is a better rebellion.”

He flicked his lighter over the fresh cigarette, huffing out the smoke. She sensed his frustration, seeping out in the bite of his words. He had been swallowing back his real thoughts during their conversations. His voice tight and tense. She touched his forearm with her fingertips. He jumped, as though shocked. “How about you?” she murmured. “Family or work problems?”

“Both as well.” He sighed hard. “You seem to have it worse though.”

There was more to her story; maybe he could see it on her face. She closed her eyes, brief. “My brother is ill and he’s getting worse,” she breathed. She didn’t want to talk about it; except it was why she was so angry right now.

“I’m sorry.”

“We’re not close, but it hurts to see him the way he is.” The need to leave, to disappear, it grew stronger at that admission. It was the first time she’d actually said it out loud, perhaps finally her emotions catching up to the present. She closed her eyes, pushing her fingers to her forehead, a headache beginning to form. It would be easy to blame the alcohol and the cigarettes and the exhaustion, but she knew it was because of everything else going on.

She was stifled, by family and by _work_ and everything else going on. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. The thick mascara and eyeshadow was waterproof but would not protect against the anger leaking out onto her cheeks. She closed her eyes tight; willed it away. Couldn’t do it. She rattled a breath into her lungs. “You must think me pathetic,” she murmured, flicking ash into a tray beside her hand. The cigarette did not help anymore. It tasted dry and numb. Nothing would help.

Except the man seated beside her. His knees bumped to hers. She touched his with her palm, heat seeping through his jeans. He shivered, shifted so she wouldn’t notice, but she did. She noticed everything, like him. “Why would I think that?” he asked.

She snorted. “Why wouldn’t you? Poor little rich girl. I know what they say about me.”

“We all have problems. Wealth does not make them worse or better than another’s.”

So many people would think the opposite of him, this strange man beside her. He chuckled, shaking his head and dropped his cigarette stub into the tray they shared. He picked up the other pack, fished out another, and lit it. She eyed him, squinting. “These will kill you; you know.” She took another breath of hers, blew the stream sideways. It was something to do; her mother told her when she was a teenager to stop smoking, it would ruin her teeth. So she made sure to do it all the time. Tiny rebellions.

He rasped around the end of his smoke. “Sure. So will everything else in my life.”

“Like your job?”

“Aye, that could kill me.” He barely looked at her, his gray eyes glancing forward. He ran his index finger around the rim of his whiskey glass, his cigarette burning bright. He flicked the ash aside, but did not lift it back to his lips, allowing it to continue to waste away while he pondered whatever it was in his mind. He chuckled. “I got demoted.”

“Why?”

“There was a girl.”

“Isn’t there always?”

He eyed her. His pupils were dilated, black and fat, and she could see her reflection in them, they were so shiny. The dark hair she’d tugged from her face, her eyes the same muddy brown color. She blinked hard, the edges of them itchy. He licked his lips, sinful, and decadent. _I want to kiss him._ She leaned in, but he paused her, his free hand going to her thigh, stilling. “We shouldn’t do this,” he murmured.

“We shouldn’t do a lot of things.”

They didn’t move; she could hear her heart racing and swore she heard his too. The room darkened around her; they were the only ones there. She leaned closer to him and brushed her lips to his. He did not move. She took a deep breath through her nose and silently begged him, hoping he could hear her. _Please. I need this._ He dropped his still-smoldering cigarette into the tray and pushed his lips to hers. He murmured over her mouth. “Want to come back to my place?”

She smiled.

* * *

They stumbled into his apartment, tugging at clothing, biting at each other’s tongues, lips, and any available bit of jaw, neck, and shoulder they could reach in their quest to have each other. Her dress was skintight and long-sleeved, which she noted she would never wear again, as he struggled to rip it over her head. She leaned down and fumbled with the straps of her heels while he yanked at his boots.

The apartment was small, sparsely furnished, and she glanced sideways to see a giant white dog look up idly from his inner tube bed before wagging his tail and closing his eyes, returning to sleep. She smiled but didn’t have a chance to comment on the pet, because he was tugging her back up to kiss her, a wide palm spreading over her cheek while the other leaned around to splay over the small of her back, tilting her hips towards his.

In the yellow streetlight from the open windows, she mapped his body—strong arms, shoulders, and muscles bunching in his back with his movements. She traced a beautiful tattoo along his arm, a dizzying array of wolves, ravens, red leaves, and a sword slicing through his forearm. She kissed him, deep and hard, tongue sweeping against his.

He pulled her up from the ground again, those big hands now on her thighs and cupping her bare bottom, her slick cunt rubbing at the bulge from his briefs, his jeans unzipped and belt flopping loose, buckle clinking. He carried her towards the bedroom, lightly dropping her onto the bed. She leaned back on her elbows, licking her lips, and met his eyes. He stared at her, eyes black as coal, and hair mussed from her diving fingers. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, his throat constricting.

The survey of his eyes over her naked body made her strangely self-conscious. She slid her knee up, her toes pointing and tracing over her other leg, not blinking. “Take off your clothes,” she responded.

He grinned, jeans falling to the floor, briefs joining them. He crawled up over her and their frenzied actions faded into gentle touching. It wasn’t what she wanted; she wanted hard, fast, anonymous fucking. _Not feelings_ , she thought, trying to hurry him along, lifting her cunt to rub at his erection, her fingers slipping to grip his length. She mumbled her want, but he shook his head, kissing down over her body, fingers lightly playing down her ribs, across her thighs, and to the soft fold of her knees, lifting her feet to his shoulders.

 _Oh gods_ , she whimpered, tangling her fingers in his curls, his soft lips now where she needed him, kissing and licking and slipping along the wetness accumulating the more the need built within her. “Look at me,” he mumbled against her cunt, his tongue flicking at her clit.

One of his hands broke free from her leg, dancing up her flat stomach to cup her breast, pinching her nipple before she grabbed it, and squeezed hard, lacing their fingers together, anchoring herself to him as he brought her hurtling over the peak, crying his name when she came. She watched him, helping him lift himself over her. He wiped the back of his hand over his beard, damp and then rose over her, their noses crushed together, and his lips hovering over hers.

She could smell herself on his breath, darted her tongue to taste, and moaned at the sensation. He soothed her; body still shivering from her climax. One of the blinds on the windows remain open, the other shuttered. The streetlights, the glow of the store signs and the traffic light just beyond play over the bare, white walls, and dapple over his marble-like skin. “Don’t think,” he assured her.

_That’s my line._

She nodded quickly, kissing him. Drowning herself in him. She panted against him and suddenly he was inside of her, a hard thrust bringing her up on the bed, lifting her shoulders off the mattress. Her arms wrapped hard around him for support, whimpering with the fullness of him in her, stretching to accommodate him. Tears pricked in her eyes. All the stress, the anger, and the frustration, it went away in that moment. When he was with her. And she was with him.

Her breathing faltered; she wanted to say something. To thank him, to say something, anything, but he silenced her with a kiss, rising over her again and again. She pressed so tight to him, she could hear his heart hammering away with hers, their bodies twisting together. Their hips lifted and pulled and tugged, his cock dragged inside of her, sparked all the nerve endings inside of her, and warmed her entirely. “Please,” she begged. Her neck arched up, nails digging into his shoulders. He pulsed inside of her, his breath came in uneven gasps, and his thrusts grew erratic.

And then she came, tightening around him, and he fell with her, a harsh cry of her name on his lips. They fell together, embracing, and she closed her eyes so tight she feared they would never open again, clutching him. They remained in place, him inside of her, until eventually he rolled to his side and she slung her arm over her belly, staring up at the ceiling while he remained at her side.

She breathed deeply, her heart straining for his, and fingers curling for him, tight and close. They remained still, returning to their bodies, and after a moment he turned, shifting down and rolling onto his stomach, their hands still joined, their noses almost touching and sharing the same pillow. He was sleepy, sated. As was she. "I love you," he whispered.

Her heart felt so full. It was cheesy, something she laughed at growing up. Missy was always into the princess movies, the romance novels, where people spoke of their other halves and the ones they could sense existed and didn't know until they locked eyes over a crowded room. Became one together. Until she met him, until she realized the longing feeling in her chest was her heart craving his, and when they were together, she was finally whole. "I love you too," she replied.

She moved slightly, sitting up and reached to her forehead, peeling back, fingers catching under the wig. The pins scattered and she shook it out, setting it on the nightstand. She popped the contacts, blinking hard, and turned back to him. He beamed; her silver hair fell loose from the bundled mess it had been in beneath the wig and her violet eyes shined down on him, filled with love. She settled back to him, kissing his heart. "I love you," she repeated.

The little furrow in his brows deepened, warning. She rolled her eyes, smirking in anticipation of his reprimand. "You were too careless in the club. It took me awhile to find you. Going up to Drogo before I had eyes on? Anything could have happened."

"My protector."

"I did it for five years."

He did; he was her shadow, her ghost, always there, always watching. He saved her in more ways than a person could be saved. Her fingertip scratched over the jagged scar over his heart. The visible indication of his love for her. She frowned. "Why does it always become this? It's supposed to be fun."

"Because we're not just a normal..." he trailed off, closing his mouth, pressing tight.

He wouldn't say it. _Couple._ They were not a normal couple. Even trying to tease each other in the club had been strained. He was always looking for threats, unable to turn off his former role as her bodyguard. She missed him there, but it could never be. They could never be together. Princesses didn’t marry their bodyguards. Bodyguards did not become princes. The Targaryens would never allow her to live a life she truly wanted to live. Her brother was the King after all.

The fact he could keep his job after they’d been found out was a miracle. It was not without her machinations, threatening and screaming and calling in every favor and plea to her brother. She could see him every day, but she could never have him. Something made her think Rhaegar found that almost amusing.

And sometimes she had to escape that world, to pretend she was a party girl, and blow off her steam, and be with a guy. Her boyfriend, the love of her life, and the man she could never be with.

She got out of bed and went into the bathroom to clean up. To wash her face and swipe between her legs, his seed trickling down her thigh. The seed that would never take, she thought darkly, courtesy of her traitorous body. _Maybe one day_ , she thought, like she always did. She plucked off her fake eyelashes, opened the cabinet and removed some of her pomades and creams, scrubbing at the mascara, eyeshadow, and rouge.

And when she returned to the bedroom, she was rosy-cheeked and clean, in one of his t-shirts. He had put his briefs and jeans back on, his dog Ghost occupying the bottom half of the bed. She smiled at the great big white dog, reaching for him. “Hey sweetie,” she cooed, burying her face into his. He licked her cheek and her toes curled into the carpet, relaxing further.

“We can’t do this.”

“I know,” she mumbled, lifting her face up from Ghost’s to meet the gaze of the man across the bed. He had the dark wig in his hand. She glared at it, hating it. She closed her eyes, whispering. “Can I please just…just stay for a little while?”

He could never deny her. They curled back up in bed together, smoking and drinking, and saying nothing. Not wanting to break the spell. Her phone buzzed a couple of times; Drogo telling her where another warehouse party would be that early morning and Missy asking if she got home safe.

 _I’m safe_ , she told her. She smiled, her hand over his heart. _I’m home._

Until the spell broke. “Time to go back Princess,” he murmured, dragging his fingers down her spine. He gazed into her eyes, sad. “They’ll notice you’re gone.”

She nodded. It was time for the night to end.

* * *

The keep loomed over the city, from high atop the hill. Aegon's High Hill, Rhaenys's Hill, and Visenya's Hill. Sometimes she wondered if they couldn't just raze them all to the ground, start fresh, everyone equal, all the people on one even floor. Sadly, that would never happen, and that was kind of the point of her life. From the moment she was born, she was supposed to be _above_ them all and the location of the Red Keep informed her of that every chance she dared to think of it.

She kept her arms around his waist, not wanting to let go just yet. There were hundreds of miles of tunnels beneath their feet, tunnels people could only dream of discovering and following. They crisscrossed in a maze, deadening and spiraling up and down, locked gates and doors and hidden walls. If one knew the exact way in, had the proper codes and keys, they could enter the stone pillar beside where Jon had parked the bike, could descend into the cool, dank depths, and find their way up to the false wall hidden in her bedroom, hiding behind a large tapestry of three snarling dragons tearing apart a lion, wolf, and stag in each of their mouths.

It was how she could escape. How she could find a way to leave behind her world and enter another. Through that door, she became Dany Storm. Dany with the dark hair and dark eyes, who loved to party, to let loose, and had a boyfriend who loved her, a boyfriend she could spend time with, curled in bed, sharing her deepest and darkest secrets and desires.

Not Princess Daenerys of House Targaryen, the only daughter of the dead King Aerys and Dowager Queen Rhaella, whose brother was King Rhaegar, who would soon become the Princess of Dragonstone, the heir, as her brother Viserys was too ill to be considered for it. It destroyed her, when in others they might glory in it.

She did not want to go back there. To the castle where so many little girls dreamed of residing, but to her was a prison. "It will be alright," he whispered, reading her mind.

"I only feel safe with you."

He turned his face, their foreheads touching again, noses pressed together. He smiled, sad. "Arthur would never allow it. Too dangerous. Me protecting you. Involved with you."

She ignored the tears in her eyes, threatening to spill forth. "I hate leaving you," she gasped. She held him tighter, crushing herself to him. "Please Jon. Let's just run away."

"You can't do that; you know you can't." He moved, turning further on the bike, cupping the side of her face, breaths mingling. He lightly kissed her. "Dany, it's your family. You cannot just leave them, and you know it."

 _No, but I cannot leave you either._ "Be with me," she begged. Her tears smeared on his face; maybe he was crying too. "Please Jon. Arthur doesn't control you and my brother doesn't control me. If I want, you on my detail..."

"I was on your detail," he said, irritated. "And they found out and I'm lucky I still have a job, can still be close to you."

"My mother's detail is no place for you."

"But I can still see you," he whispered. He smiled again, dragging his thumb over her cheek, scattering her tears away. He kissed her again, hard, so painful she almost burst forth in sobs. She did not want to let him go ever. He was the only one she could trust, the only one she ever truly could be Dany with. He held her face in his palms. "I love you and you know we can't be together. They'd never approve me."

"I don't care," she said fiercely. _But I do_ , he silently conveyed. She knew he worried over it. Worried over losing his job entirely, of never being able to be with her. They separated to her family. They were cordial with each other when she saw him at the keep, ten paces behind her mother, at events and galas. He was always there, always watching, and when she escaped, he was there too. He protected her body and her heart.

One day, she vowed, it would not matter. One day when she could change things....she bit her bottom lip, tugging it hard. He would not let her bring him out of the shadows, not yet. She respected that. She looked up to the keep, illuminated on all sides, the high gates and the occasional passing helicopter, checking on security. There were too many threats for him to leave just now. "Promise," she whispered, eyes fluttering closed. "Promise me Jon."

"I promise." He squeezed her hand tight. "I promise Dany, one day, when all this shit ends."

"And if it never ends?"

He kissed her gently . "It will. Right now you're safe."

She nodded; to him, that was what mattered the most. It was not ideal, it hurt, but at least they could be together in this way, they could see each other, and no one would bother them. He could protect her from a distance and her family was off her back about dating the "help." They would never know just how involved with Jon Snow she happened to be.  
One day, she promised herself, kissing him again. She climbed off the bike and he did too. They embraced, squeezing tight, and she buried her face into his shoulder. His shirt smelled like him; she would keep it until the next time, exchange it for another. It would be like he was with her. In her cold, lonely tower.

They kissed, gasping and panting when they parted, and she stumbled backwards, dizzy. He moved forward with her, hands on her hips. "Go," he gasped. He let go, touched her cheek, and stepped backwards, nodding. "Go Dany. I love you."

"I love you too."

With one final look, she entered the passageway. She disappeared into the tunnels and made her way back to her room. The tapestry swished into place and she tossed her heels into a corner. She threw her dress and her purse down, and in his shirt, she climbed into her bed, hugging her pillow against her chest, and began to plan the next escape.

A smile flirted on her lips; maybe it would be the final one. The great disappearing act of Princess Daenerys. Daenerys Targaryen would leave the keep and Dany Snow would emerge. She closed her eyes and with another smile, she began to dream.

The next day, she entered her mother's solar and nodded to Jon, who stood at the entrance, in his black suit and his earpiece. He barely nodded to her, hardly even acknowledged her existence. She moved over to the tea service he stood beside, brushing against him and reached for a cup.

She prepared her tea and went to her mother, who was sitting outside on the balcony. "Mother."

"Daenerys, dear, please join me, have a seat."

She sat down and primly crossed her legs, rolling her eyes sideways to Jon. She smiled and sipped her tea, beginning to listen to her mother talk of the day's plans.

* * *

"I'll be back, gotta' hit the head."

Jon slipped towards the bathroom, but instead of heading there, he moved to an alcove off the corridor that he knew to always be abandoned. He yanked the paper out of his pocket, where Daenerys deftly slipped her fingers. _I taught her well._ He unraveled it and stared at the instructions.

_Street of Silk, midnight, dragon takes flight._

He smiled wryly and crumpled the paper back up. he shoved his hands into his pocket and wondered. _She couldn't. Not already..._ He cleared his throat and stepped back to the corridor, going about his day, as though nothing amiss had occurred.

At midnight, he saw her at the entrance to one of the tunnels at the Street of Silk. "Daenerys," he greeted, pulling off his helmet. He watched her climb over his bike, in jeans and boots, and leather jacket, instead of her usual club attire. She took the helmet but did not put it on. He frowned; head tilted back slightly to see her. "Where are we going?"

And she reached up, removed the wig, and threw it aside, allowing her silver curls to tumble free. She grinned; purple eyes bright. "Wherever we want."

He didn't know what that meant, but there was a shift in the air. He jerked his head and she shoved her helmet on and gripped his waist tight. He hit the throttle and released the brake, the bike taking off, towards the horizon.


End file.
